Rebecca York (17 page)

They were digging for answers. Information that he couldn't provide. He longed to give them everything they wanted. All of it. Every scrap. But that was beyond his power.

He knew Willow understood because the pain inside his skull eased. Now it was only a dull throbbing.

"You did the right thing by coming to us," she whispered.

"I know."

"Find out more about Maple Creek. If you have to steal the information—get it for us."

"I... don't... steal."

"You do. For us. When you know more, come back down here, and we can make love together."

"I want that."

"Yes. But you have to earn the privilege."

* * *

Even if Lindsay had been at the Cathedral, she wouldn't still be waiting for him. Would she?

Inside the hushed grounds a massive stone wall kept him from seeing into the Bishop's Garden.

Frustrated by the delay, he slammed into a parking space, then trotted toward one of the garden gates.

Lindsay, if you 're here, don't leave now! he shouted. A silent shout. But it blared in his own mind like a trumpet sounding.

As soon as he stepped across the threshold of the garden, he felt a surge of relief.

She had waited for him! He felt her presence. At least he thought so.

Speeding down one of the stone paths, he stopped short when he saw her standing with her back to a small fountain, looking in his direction—her shoulders tense, her expression a mixture of longing and relief and anxiety.

They hadn't seen each other in thirty-six hours. It felt like decades.

He was instantly swamped with emotions. He wanted to rush forward and take her in his arms. But he stopped a couple of paces from her, his hands clenched at his sides.

"I kept worrying I was going to run into that lady," she whispered. "The one who—"

"Yeah." He swallowed. "Thank you for staying." The words sounded inadequate. What he felt was so overwhelming that he couldn't handle it. How the hell would he deal with the rush of thoughts and feelings mingling and coalescing in his mind—and hers? And at the same time act on arousal so intense that pleasure shaded off into pain.

He felt needs, confusions, fears, and longings pouring off her, threatening to swamp him.

She licked her lips, and he knew they were as dry as his.

"Why did you wait for me?" he managed to say.

She raised one shoulder. "I guess I had to."

They stared greedily at each other. But he knew that if he took a step forward, she would duck away.

"Not here," she finally whispered. "Don't touch me here. Not again."

But they were going to touch. Kiss. And a whole lot more. It was inevitable—because both of them were desperate enough to risk their sanity.

"Where?" he asked, his voice sounding like gravel.

"Somewhere safe."

He wanted to tell her that nowhere was safe for what they both had in mind. Although he didn't speak, she nodded.

He could barely breathe, barely put coherent sentences together. But his brain was apparently still working. Or he was desperate to find a place where she would feel secure enough to let him touch her.

When he'd been working on one of his books and needed a place to hole up, he'd rented a cabin in the Catoctin Mountains—not far from Camp David, the presidential retreat.

"Cunningham Falls," he murmured.

"Yes."

"Now."

She gave a small shake of her head. "I have to go in my own car."

"So you can escape if you need to?"

"No. I can't sit beside you for that long and not touch you. And we both know what will happen when we do."

He felt as if a steel fist had clamped around his lungs. He knew some of it. He knew he had to make love with her, before the pressure building inside him blew the top off his head.

Or would that happen anyway?

"Do you know your way around up there?" he managed to say.

"I went to a weekend meeting at Camp David with Senator Bridgewater."

"You move in high-powered circles, Ms. Fleming."

"My job was taking notes."

"I was up there a couple of years ago when I was on deadline. I stayed at the Mountain View Lodge in Thur-mont, Maryland."

She swallowed. "I want privacy—not a lodge."

"They have cabins. Let me see if they've got one open."

He'd vowed not to use his cell phone unless absolutely necessary. Well, it was necessary now. Feeling like a diver whose air tanks were empty, he called information. Then he called the office, telling himself that nobody was going to pick up on a conversation between him and a backwoods motel in Maryland.

Through the brief conversation, he watched the play of emotions on Lindsay's face, wondering if she would back out. After clicking off, he said, "We have a cabin for tonight—and the next two days. It's the last one at the top of the hill."

Emotions washed over her face. Relief and longing. But they were still tempered with uncertainty.

"Are you okay with it?" he asked, unable to breathe until she answered.

"I'll be there." She looked at her watch. "I have to go home and pack some clothes—and some groceries."

"You don't have to do all the cooking."

"What's in your refrigerator?"

When he twisted his mouth ruefully, she said, "I'll bring what I bought this afternoon. I guess that's why I didn't unpack most of them."

"Don't forget the apples."

She answered with a tight nod, not even bothering to ask how he knew.

He gave her directions to the lodge, and she wrote them down on a pad of paper. Such an ordinary exchange, yet there was nothing ordinary about where they were headed. Together.

"I'll try to get there by eight," she said, then started toward the gate.

He itched to grab her hand on the way past. But he knew that would be a serious mistake, so he kept his arms at his sides.

* * *

AS she drove toward Cunningham Falls, Lindsay fought her way through a fog. Not a mist that obscured her vision. A fog inside her head that made her thoughts stick together like clumps of clotted cream.

She had packed in a rush, throwing clothing and toiletry articles into a carry bag and groceries into a cardboard box and a cooler. Now she couldn't remember exactly what she had brought—or why.

She was no coward. Yet she wanted to back out. And at the same time she knew in the depths of her soul she had to keep this rendezvous if she wanted a chance of hanging on to her sanity.

Two days ago she'd walked away from Jordan Walker—and felt like she'd hacked off her own arm.

No, that wasn't quite how to describe it.

She fumbled for words and didn't even come close. She'd always felt as if something was wrong with her— that she was missing a part of herself that other people seemed to take for granted. Tonight there might be a way to make herself whole.

An image of herself and Jordan, naked and entwined, sprang into her mind—sending hot currents coursing through her, and she gripped the wheel when she wanted to press her hand against her own breast—or between her legs.

What the hell was going on with her? Sex had always been a take-it-or-leave-it proposition for her. Now the need for contact—the need for release—clawed at her.

She reached the outskirts of Cunningham Falls Park, a forest primeval sixty miles from Washington, D.C.

It was dark by the time she saw a lighted signboard advertising the Mountain View Lodge. She drove past the main building, up a one-lane track carved into the hillside by countless automobile tires. On either side the headlights caught the dark shapes of trees. And once she stopped short as a doe and fawn crossed her path.

She had never taken this road in her life, yet she knew exactly where she was going. To Jordan. The man who would be her salvation or her destruction.

There were lights in a few of the cabins. She ignored them and drove past, up the hill, alongside a rushing stream she could vaguely hear above the pounding of her pulse in her own ears.

Jordan was framed in the doorway to the cabin at the top of the lane. He stood with his hands in his pockets. The light shining out behind him made it impossible to see his face in the dark.

She could have parked in front. She wasn't sure why she pulled around back of the cabin, then climbed out of the car, cool mountain air hitting her skin.

As she closed the door, Jordan joined her beside the car. His voice was low and rough as he said, "I was afraid you weren't coming."

"You knew I had to. You knew 1 couldn't stand it any longer."

"You mean the feeling of being alone? Or the sexual part?"

"Both." She swallowed. "I could tolerate being alone— until I met you."

"Yes." He took a step toward her.

Despite her resolve, she automatically backed up, her hips pressing against the car door.

"I wasn't going to ... grab you .. ."

"Not yet, anyway."

"Can I help you carry anything out of the car?"

"The box with the groceries. And the cooler," she answered, struggling to hang on to her composure.

Turning, she popped the trunk and stepped back.

He picked up the provisions. When he was out of the way, she grabbed her carry bag, then followed him inside. The cabin was small but comfortable, with a kitchen area at one side of the main room.

Across from it a green corduroy sofa and chairs made a U around a stone fireplace— where Jordan had built an inviting fire.

She walked to the hearth, staring into the dancing flames, then turned toward the room.

But the details of her surroundings faded into a blur as she brought her gaze back to him. He wore old jeans and a dark T-shirt that made him look lean and dangerous.

Dangerous to her, she decided as she took in the almost predatory expression in his eyes.

A shiver traveled down her spine. She had agreed to meet him in this isolated place. Now she wondered if he'd hypnotized her into coming.

No. He answered the silent question without speaking. Whatever it is—it's happening to both of us.

They stood frozen in place, facing each other as she breathed in the tang of wood smoke. The buzzing in her brain made coherent thought almost impossible. That and the arousal that flowed through her body.

Is this private enough? he asked. Again he had spoken without words—his mind to hers.

LINDSAY HAD LOST the ability to make her voice work. But that didn't stop her from answering Jordan's question.

Yes.

And she knew beyond doubt that he caught her answer.

When he took a step forward, her whole body tensed. She wanted to ask him to start slowly—with the touch of hands, so she could let the sensations build by manageable degrees. Instead he moved decisively, pulling her close and wrapping her in his arms.

She gasped at the contact, clung to his broad shoulders as his mouth came down, scaring her lips, turning her blood to fire.

The rest of the world vanished. Only the two of them existed. Lindsay Fleming and Jordan Walker—caught in a whirlwind of sensation and swirling thoughts.

She was instantly so aroused that she had to clamp her hands on his shoulders to keep from losing her balance. And she knew he clung to her with the same desperation.

The thoughts and feelings radiating from him told her he wanted her with a force that bordered on madness. His madness. Hers.

Fear leaped inside her. When she tried to break away, he held her fast, moving his lips over hers, stroking sensitive tissue with his tongue, nibbling with his teeth, exerting the exact amount of pressure that would bring her pleasure instead of pain.

Please—don't go so fast.

Be honest. You 're as hot as I am.

"Yes," she moaned into his mouth because lying to this man when he held her in his arms was impossible.

That lack of privacy—inside her own head—was frightening.

Let me go.

We've gone too far for that.

She knew in her heart that he was right. Stopping now was impossible. Simply walking across the room was impossible. If she wrenched away now, she would lose her mind.

She understood that truth on a gut-clenching level. Yet she also understood she was walking along a narrow edge of safety. The danger might tip either way. Pulling away was beyond her power, but they could crash and burn if they stayed in each other's arms—if they took this physical and mental intimacy to its natural conclusion.

They were both trembling. Both coping with too much too quickly. Yet he was a man, and his sexual urgency pushed the rest of it to the background.

He spoke against her mouth. "I need ..."'

He didrft have to finish the sentence. She knew what he wanted, and she moved far enough away for him to cup her breast.

They both exclaimed in pleasure as he took the soft mound in his hand, shaping and molding it to his touch, then skimming his thumb over the button-hard tip.

She moaned in response, the small sound swallowed by his mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

The plea was his. No, hers. Because the intimate touch brought them to a new level of silent communication. A new level of need.

She cried out when he broke the mouth-to-mouth contact. The separation was intolerable.

Her mind and body throbbed. But she knew why he had lifted his hungry mouth from hers. He ached to feel her breasts against his naked chest. She stepped away and pulled ucr knit top over her head, then reached around to unhook her bra.

When she looked up, she saw he had ripped off his T-shirt, exposing a broad chest with dark hair spreading in a fan pattern, then arrowing down toward his narrow waist.

Nice. And so damn masculine. She hadn't spoken. But he answered her with a question.

You don't mind a man with a hairy chest?

I like it. She reached to comb her fingers through the dark, springy hair, the contact sending prickles along her nerve endings.

She heard his breath catch, felt his pleasure at her touch—felt it in his mind.